this, now, only

The marvel of seeing you

always the first time 

every moment, knowing

we will never again pass

this same way 

as the same persons again.

the gaze

all points in the room point at
the one thing
partially acknowledged and therefore 
there at the corner of my eye

jazz in the evening and quiet

Quiet of mind becomes not an easy find. Jazz helps
clear the air of thoughts always insistent of importance:
sublunary matters announce themselves loud banging
the door for importance.

no words

I hear no words recently, between my ears the room
all open windows no sunlight no moonlight stay
they come leaving as they please

In their steads, I play music slow with steps
the kind that sways the shoulders in hazy waves

Miracle Fair

Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.

An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.

One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.

Several miracles in one:
an alder tree reflected in the water,
and that it’s backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.

An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.

First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.

Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.

A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.

A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.

A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.

A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.

An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
the unthinkable
is thinkable.

[by Wislawa Szymborska; translated by Joanna Trzeciak]

length of a year

the logic is to measure as many things
                  to live the finite life, it's end
                      at the very end certainly known
                            even as certainly unseen.

the body feels it for us, receiving the Quiet. cell
                  by cell as if room by room, coming in
                       door after door in this poor temple 
                            of soul. the young do not hear

yet the Quiet's footsteps echoing in the wind.
                   but come years of footfall after footfall
                        one finally recognises the visitor 
                             has been in all along. the logic is

to measure as many things to forewarn life
                   the finiteness of every moment that needs
                       be lived. sense the silhouette passing
                             minute after minute quantifiable

ultimately by calendar. but how long the length of 
                   a passing year for uncertain waiting?
                       the letter gave no promises, only half
                            affirmative gesture, the word "about"

encompassing. so one continues to move the motor
                    of day-to-day, no certain number
                        except what wind presses on
                            one's cheek, what dogs in gentle

wisdom knows, the way they keep close. in the way
                    one's mind attempts to see an entire
                        year more, the whole turn around sun
                            from now, but sees only part of it.
                            
I rather not have yet the leaving a form, a body, a face 
                    as number of remaining days, of date, hour
                        of plane departure because it is inevitable.
                            I rather at this moment let it remain

a spectre she and I would let in in time, but not yet, 
                    not yet. at the moment, let it stay
                        a welcomed guest at the front door.






                    

the long drive from Saavedra

And it comes to me again.

Even not yet absolute, 
the one remaining 
year in this country. 

From Germany, J sends
congratulations saying
his own return after

Denmark and torn Israel. 
Till we meet again, I say
motioning the years 

near a decade or so. Or
so. G is now rarely
mentioned, left

(after retirement) several
pages back. In Spain. 
In other points elsewhere.

The marching continues
off from coast to coast.
In middle, Raymund

takes his off-road motor
to return to his kids--
a last save before

they are all grown.
G had always said
about the passing

of grace, nothing 
permanent except what
the moment has. 

And it comes to me again.

Even not yet absolute, 
the one remaining 
year in this country. 

During the not-long-enough

drive from Saavedra

to her warmth.

And it comes to me again. 

Nights 

we hold as long as we can.